


In Books Written By Rabbits

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Multi, The Mosaic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: On a rainy day in the Mosaic universe, Quentin reads one of his favorite books to Arielle and their unborn child. Eliot listens in, too.





	In Books Written By Rabbits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HighKingFen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighKingFen/gifts).



> This is for @Gizmo on her birthday, and she graciously allowed me to post it for all of you to enjoy.

Quentin awoke to the Morse code _tap-tap-tap_ of a steady rain on the cottage roof. He sat up, pushing back his long, loose hair, some of the tawny tresses falling forward, stubborn in their fine texture. Arielle stood by the bedroom window, a woven shawl around her shoulders. She was talented at the loom and the material was a flowing mix of salmon and barely-there lemon accents. Her strawberry-blonde hair was undone at this hour, and Quentin admired its color in the glow of the mini-sun in the corner that gave off both heat and light in the otherwise-muted room. Arielle turned as he stirred, both hands on her growing belly, a belly that contained nearly eight months’ worth of her and Quentin’s child.

 

“It’s been raining most of the night,” Arielle said as Quentin stretched out his hand to take one of hers. “And getting colder.”

 

Quentin shifted over to make room for her on the bed, careful not to wake Eliot, who was asleep on his right, the quilts pulled up high, his tousled dark curls barely visible. They’d magically expanded the size of the bed as Arielle’s pregnancy had advanced, and one of the greatest joys in Quentin’s life was sleeping in between the two people he loved most in this otherwise-puzzling universe of the mosaic.

 

“You should stay in,” Quentin suggested, glancing at his wife’s fruit basket, which was hanging from a gilded hook in the corner.  “You could get sick walking in this weather.”

 

Arielle leaned against her husband’s shoulder.

 

“Perhaps . . . but what could we do otherwise?”

 

“Oh! Uhm—actually, I have something I’ve been saving for the baby . . .” Quentin kissed her cheek and slid from the bed, clad only in a pair of cotton sleep pants Arielle had made him. He went to a rough-hewn nightstand and pulled open the bottom drawer to withdraw a paperback. Arielle’s brow furrowed.

 

“A book?”

 

“Yeah . . . I had it in my bag when we came here. I guess I thought it might come in handy?” He passed it to her and she ran a hand over the unicorn on the cover.

 

“What do the words say?” She asked, and Quentin sat back down next to her.

 

“It’s called _The Last Unicorn_.”

 

“The last! But there are many unicorns here. They are rarely glimpsed because of their powerful magic, but the pure of heart can see them, or so I was told as a child.” She touched the cover of the book again and Quentin helped her slip under the quilt with him. He tugged her close and put a hand on her belly.

 

“Quentin!” She smiled. “What are you doing?”

 

“I’m going to read to the baby. I remember hearing somewhere that it can help with development and form a close bond between the baby and the reader. And since you can only read Fillorian, at least until I teach you English letters, this is the best way to tell the tale.” He stroked a gentle hand over her belly, casting a warming spell to comfort her. “The unicorn lived in a lilac wood,” he began, “and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night . . .”

 

An hour passed, then another. Rain continued to fall, and at one point Quentin sensed that Eliot was awake, but to his credit, he remained quiet and didn’t disturb them. Arielle listened, curled up against Quentin’s shoulder, her attention rapt, until he turned the final page of the book.

 

“That was a lovely story. I think Lir must have loved the unicorn very much when she was Almalthea.” She said when Quentin closed the book and set it aside.

 

“I think so too. But she couldn’t live as something she wasn’t meant to be. I think it would have been sad if she’d never rescued the others. Besides . . . I always related more to Schmendrick anyway.”

 

“Oh?” Arielle smiled up at him as he slipped an arm around her. “Does that mean I’m your Molly Grue, and we’ll walk out of this story and into another as we sing a love song?”

 

“With magic, you never know.” He pushed a lock of hair back from her face as her expression grew sleepy. A few moments later she was asleep against his shoulder, and he carefully eased her down to let her sleep in his arms. Eliot turned over a moment later and his amber eyes tipped up to Quentin’s.

 

“I’d almost forgotten that story,” he murmured, and Quentin held out his free hand. Eliot took it and kissed his palm before holding it in his own.

 

“It always stayed with me.”

 

“How come?”

 

“Because I never believed in happy endings. And the idea of Molly and Schmendrick simply walking into another story . . . it was like Fillory, you know? And now here we are—we’ve walked into another story, El.” He glanced down at Arielle’s belly, a rounded hump under the quilt. “Do you think we’ll ever figure the mosaic out and become part of another story?”

 

“I don’t know, Q.” Eliot squeezed his hand. “But I do know that no matter what world we’re in, there will always be one where Arielle loves you, and one where you will always remember her. Maybe Schmendrick was right . . . there are no happy endings, but not because nothing ends.”

 

Quentin smiled as he felt the comfort and warmth of Arielle’s form as she nestled closer to him in her sleep.

 

“No?”

 

“No.” Eliot moved closer until Quentin was firmly sandwiched between them and the three of them lay tangled in a lazy, warm pile. Quentin put a hand on Arielle’s belly, and Eliot laid his hand over his, feeling the strong aura and squirming movements of the healthy child inside.

 

“It’s because there are always more beginnings than endings.”

 


End file.
